


They Call Us

by J_Ace_Flicker



Category: Original Works
Genre: Cryptids, Cute, Fluff, Folklore, Harpies, Harpy, Mythology - Freeform, Nonbinary Character, Trans Character, cryptid, especially since I use they/them pronouns and so do several of my friends, it just upsets me, la lechuza - Freeform, sorry that the last tag is a little aggressive, trans woman, when I use they/them pronouns that is NOT permission to use whatever pronouns you want for them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24741649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Ace_Flicker/pseuds/J_Ace_Flicker
Summary: A collection of short stories I write about fantasy and fantastical creatures. You can request stories here or on Tumblr @ThisIsLightful
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	1. Mothman

They breathed carefully, trying to take comfort in the arcing motion of their cane, trying not to let their paranoia get to them.

The footsteps behind them persisted. 

Usually, footsteps wouldn’t be that big of a deal. The thing was, they lived in a small town where everyone knew they were blind. Any footsteps would have announced the person they were in a heartbeat. And it was the middle of the night, and they knew that this route was deserted at this time of night. So who were these people?

_ “In 100 steps, turn right.”  _ The GPS murmured into their ear.

They’d taken this route enough times to know that there should be a group of abandoned buildings around here. And a corner to turn right about.

Now.

They bolted left, ignoring the  _ “Recalculating _ ” of their GPS. The footsteps began pounding on the pavement, taking chase, Deep voices began to holler at them. They tried to tune it out, to count their footsteps. Was that 40 or 50? Fuck. Okay. There should be a hole in the wall coming up that they can wiggle through if they’re fast enough.

They made another turn, dropping to their knees and releasing their cane to feel along the wall.

_Come on, come on!_ _  
_ The yells were right behind them, now.

Their hands scrabbled over brick. Desperate. Should be close, almost, come on--

They’d made the wrong turn. 

“Gotcha!” Large hands gripped their shoulders and hauled them to their feet. Their sunglasses skittered across the dirt road.

“Now,” a voice to their left startled them into flinching away, but the person at their back tightened their grip. “We’ve seen you lurking around here quite a bit. You wear nice clothes, you’ve got good tech--”

_ “Recalculat--” _

Their ear plug was ripped from their ear. “None of that. You’re listening to me, nothing else. You’re gonna take out your wallet. You’re gonna hand over your money. And then we can part ways peacefully, yeah? I mean,” the person to their left huffed a laugh. “It’s not like you have physical descriptions to hand over the the cops, yeah? You’re not a threat, so if you cooperate, we won’t treat you like one.”

The grip. Got. Tighter. And they felt dread pool in their stomach.

“I don’t carry cash.” And it was true. Small town they might live in, all of the stores had cash registers. It was a pain to keep hard money organized enough for them to consistently hand over the right amount, and they’d been duped before, so it was just easier. 

They didn’t think just using their card might get them killed, one day.

There was a heavy clicking sound, something metallic pressed to their neck. Stinging pain directly under their chin. A knife. 

“Bruce and I will be the judge of that.” Hands. In their pockets. Moving their jacket. They grit their teeth and tried to ignore the heat trailing down their cheeks. Tried to keep their breath from catching.

They were largely unsuccessful.

They felt their wallet be slid from their front jean pocket, and waited with bated breath.

“Fucking shit!” The sound of leather slapping against dirt.

“Greg,” the voice behind them spoke up for the first time, sounding like a man that smoked a pack of cigarettes a day. “Even if they don’t got hard cash, they still got other valuables.” A pointed tug on their jacket. They regretted buying nice things because it was cheaper in the long run.

“You’re right Bruce.” A pause. “Strip, motherfucker.”

Just as they were about to reply, an odd noise got their attention. It sounded like when they used to run around the yard pretending that the bed sheets were parachutes, It sounded like what they thought the sound of sails catching wind would be. 

“Holy--”

“Run!”

The knife fell onto their boots and then clattered to the ground. The hands left their shoulders, and the adrenaline left them, causing them to sink to their knees. 

They were alone, now.

Silence.

_ “In 20 feet, make a right.” _ came the tinny voice from their phone.

They don’t know how long they sat there, just breathing. Eventually, they found the will to start crawling, hands carefully grazing the dirt, looking for their belongings.

Shuffling made them tense. A ruffling noise. Something landing with a  _ thud _ in front of them.

Hands captured their own, gingerly pressing their cane into it.

“Oh. Uh. Thank you?”

There was no response. The hands pulled them up and then left; they cried out, involuntarily, terrified after the almost-mugging. The odd ruffling sound happened again, and they tried to get their feet under them.

Two hands. The same small hands with those oddly long fingernails gently grabbed their arms again. But then their--  _ crooked-- _ sunglasses were slid back onto their nose. But both hands were still on them.

They took notice of how small the person was-- reaching maybe their diaphragm, making this person about four feet tall, if that. They recalled how the two men had fled from the alleyway screaming at whatever they had seen. They took notice of how oddly  _ fuzzy _ the arms were. 

Four arms. This person had at least four arms.

“What are you?” they blurted out, before slamming their mouth shut with an audible  _ clack _ .

Nothing, at first, And then the rapid sound of insect wings, They reflexively curled into themself, terrified. But the arms were gentle and firm on their shoulders, and they felt the heat of breath on their neck and the tickle of what they were positive of antennae on their cheeks.

“We are…” the voice was low and like air, barely audible. They wouldn’t have heard this creature at all if it was not so close. “We are called mothmen.”

“Um.” They didn’t know what to do with that. “What’s your name?”

The blessing and the curse of living in a small, southern town is that, even in the deepest depths of fear, you have manners to fall back on.

The hands jerked off of their shoulders, and a long pause followed, before a clicking and huffing sound started up.

Was the creature laughing?

The voice sounded at their ear again. “No name.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t like the idea of calling you  _ mothman _ . Feels a bit like you calling me  _ human _ \-- just weird. Um. Okay. Uh. Can I call you…”  _ think of a good name think of a good name think of a good name _ “Vigil?”  _ Like vigilante. Smooth. _ “Um. My name’s Skylar, by the way.” They thrust their hand out in front of them, before they could think too hard about whether or not mothmen found shaking hands offensive or even knew about the concept. Two hands curled around their own and just… Held them. Sweet, but not really what they had been going for. “So, uh, I don’t really have a social script for this sort of thing. Um. If you think I’ll have anything that’s edible for you, feel free to tag along?”

They retrieved their phone from their jacket pocket, devoid of earplugs.

A weight settled on their back, surprisingly light, and arms wrapped around them.

Again. Not what they were expecting, but could they really  _ expect _ anything from this situation?

They began walking.

_ “In 10 steps, turn right _ ” the phone in their hand spoke.

There was the flutter of what was undeniably wings and the feeling of Vigil leaning-- their? Its? His? Pronouns would have to be established soon-- head over their shoulder.

An old fact floated in through their mind.

_ Moths like light. _

_ When their phone speaks or is on, it gives off light _ .

Maybe their new buddy liked the phone’s light?

“Hey, if you don’t mess with the phone’s navigation stuff or call anyone, you can mess around with it.” They held the phone up closer to Vigil, who immediately snatched it.

As they trudged home, mostly silent and certainly exotic companion making cooing noises at the phone, they began to wonder…

Do mothmen like laser pointers, by any chance?


	2. Harpy

Curiosity was a disease, his mother had always said. It was a sickly thing that festered within you, invading your thoughts, seeping like poison from your lips with every new question. 

Curiosity was a disease, and  Matías was infected.

It started with feathers, as many things did for him. Matías was an avid bird watcher, with a particular fondness for corvids, and was pleased to find a feather that he did not recognize. Far too colorful to be any of the usual ravens, too long to be anything like a bluebird or robin. It was about as large as a peacock feather, yet it had an iridescent sheen to it and lacked any of the distinct greens so often seen in peacocks.  Matías hit the books, but had found nothing.

He shrugged it off, for the most part, but kept a keen eye out for large birds, and kept an ear to the local news.

He found an odd bunch of feathers four days later, just to the side of the path through the forest; iridescent, just as the last, but also white with black spots.

“A snowy owl, maybe?” He had tried to convince himself of that. Nothing weird, just an owl, this time. Snowy owls were unusual in this area, but it wasn’t outside of the realm of probability for a few to be nesting somewhere near.

And four days after that? An amber-- not blonde or yellow, but exactly like the sap bugs got trapped in, glistening wonderfully-- further off the trail.

His mother’s worried advice waded in through the impulse to  _ discover. “Mijo, never stray from the trails. They were put there for a reason.” _

And so he did not follow. Did not grab the feather. But his collection of odd feathers mocked him, hounded him, constantly reminded him that there was something  _ strange _ .

He’s infected. It was only a matter of time before something boiled over, only a matter of  _ when _ he would let his blood, when the cool of logic would be melted by the heat of his inquiry. So, he did the only thing he could do.

He visited his mother.

_ “Mijo! _ ” she threw open the door and wrapped him in a hug the moment she spotted him through the window. “Why are you visiting this old woman now? What have you done?”

“Mama,” he said once, and then again because her name was the shield that protected him from his own foolishness, “Mama, I am  _ curious _ .”

Curiosity was the  _ mal de ojo _ to his mama; it was the Evil Eye, the always watching thing, a curse inflicted on you by another’s malice or your own stupidity.

His mother chewed him out for a good hour, ranting  _ “how could you” _ s and  _ “you fool” _ s and smacking the back of his head with a sandal. 

He’d always been more prone to this curse than his siblings. He’d always wondered about playing with dolls, had asked his mother if he could wear her makeup, had tried running into the deep of the forest on whim alone. He’d gotten into much trouble, this way, and he vividly recalls the time when his mother brought someone to the house to rub an egg on his forehead, when she had placed a cup of water under his bed every night for a month to trap the curse inside. So his mother, after she got her worried fury out, was already prepared. She handed him a glimmering black rock, and placed blue beaded necklaces around his neck.

“Mijo,” she said. A reminder.  _ You are my son, you will not succumb to this.  _ “Be careful.”

He was not.

Because the next time he spotted a feather he didn’t recognize far from his worn path,he called out. “Mama,” he called out, as though she would be pulled to him through thought alone. As though the invocation of his stupidity would summon her in front of him, sandal in hand, lecturing him “Mama, I am curious.” She did not come. There was only her voice in his head, saying  _ careful, mijo _ .  _ Mijo, mijo, mijo _ . And it made him mad, spurred him on to spite it. He did not know what came over him, what consumed him if not the  _ mal de ojo _ his mother fretted might have been permanently cast on him, but he ran to the feather and snatched it up. It didn’t take him long to spot another, and he ran for that one, too. And then the next, and the next, and soon he was finding clusters of the things. 

He knows he must be getting close to the nest of these odd birds, these  _ large _ birds. He knows he should be  _ careful, mijo _ now, but he cannot. There is a wild thing trapped in his throat clawing its way out, there is a frenzy in his fingers that forces them to close around the feathers, there is desperation in his legs that orders them to run and to hop over fallen logs and to find the next forbidden thing.

“Hello, there, stranger.” A voice speaks behind him, something dangerous and  _ other _ in its sound.

He gasps, instinctively clutching at the beads around his neck. He thinks about saying a prayer, sending an apology to his mother, but the chiding  _ careful, mijo _ in his head drowns that out and he whirls around, determined to  _ know _ .

“La lechuza,” he breathes out, in both wonderance and terror. His hand releases its white-knuckled grip on his necklaces, and he can only stare. This is the creature that the amber feathers came from. The legs are like a crane’s but thick, razor sharp talons on her feet. Her torso is vaguely humanoid, but covered in feathers. She has no arms, just wings. Her eyes are one solid color, the same amber as her wings, and her face is dappled with the honey-golden color that she seems to be carved from. 

He realizes, rather belatedly, how long he must have been staring at her, How many minutes must have passed without him being slaughtered. Her face is softened with amusement, one of the ridges where her eyebrows would be on a human face was arched, a clear  _ are you done?  _ if he had ever seen one. 

“What brings you to us?” she asks.

“I’m an idiot,” is the first thing that slips out of his mouth. The second is, “Us?” And finally, condemning him entirely, “I see there’s a rope with seven knots on around your, uh, ankle. Isn’t that supposed to protect against you?”

There is a chorus of laughter above him, and three figures glide down. The one with the snowy owl feathers, the one with the rainbow feathers, and then on with feathers more pitch than night itself, darker than darkness.

“I am  _ la lechuza _ , and I am not. We go by many names. Harpy, nymph, fae-- it matters not what we are called.” The owl one cocked her head, eyes blue and piercing. She was waiting for something, but  Matías did not know what.

He floundered. “It’s rare that men ever see you--”

The rainbow feathered woman laughs. “Men cannot see us.” 

“But I--”

“I will rephrase that. But first, we are being rude.” She puffs up, a smile flashing across her face, “I am Aellopus.”

The snowy owl harpy spoke next, “I am Nikothoe.”

The amber harpy in front of him simply said, “Okythoe.”

“My name is Celaeno. And Aellopus is right in that men cannot find us. They can see us, fleetingly. We might find them, instead. But a man cannot find our hiding places, our nests. I am the first of our kind, the personification of wind and storm and wild, and I have never met a man that can enter our spaces of their own free will. No,” she shook her head, something sad about the downturn of her lips. “The only ones who can find us are women.”

“I… I’m not a woman. My name is  Matías, and I am a man.”

“Are you?” Nikothoe’s eyes bore into him. “Have you never questioned yourself?”

“Quiet, Nikothoe,” thundered Calaeno’s voice. “The wind does not carry that name.  _ Matías.  _ It would be better said that the wind does not carry that  _ sound _ . A name is not just something that is given, it is something that’s received. Have you accepted that name? Have you accepted your place?”

And Matías thinks. He thinks about wanting to play with his sister’s dolls and crying after finding out he will never have the curves of their bodies. He thinks about the awe he felt about seeing his mother in the bright colors of her celebration dresses for the first time, and being disappointed when he later found out that he would never be allowed to wear them, never feel the flare of fabric spinning from his hips. He remembers admiring the soft jawlines of his aunts.

He thinks. And he realizes.

“Oh,” her voice is quiet. It seems obvious, in retrospect, why her mama’s warnings of  _ careful, mijo _ made her so upset.

“If there’s one thing your legends got right, it’s that we are killed before we become, well, us.” Aellopus spoke in a slow manner, as though trying to impart something very important upon her person.

“And,” began Nikothoe, “and there is more than one way to kill a person.”

“Uh.” And suddenly, she did not feel safe. That sounded like the start of a threat. Like the promise of something worse to come.

Okythoe cut in, voice raspy and desperate, “They are killing you, dearheart. Can’t you see that?”

“I’m in perfect health!”  
“Maybe physically,” placated Calaeno. “But how is your heart? Is your soul free to be who she really is?”

Her silence was damning.

Calaeno persisted, “They’re stifling you, here. They don’t allow you to ask questions, even of yourself. And by not asking questions, you’re being starved of answers. Look at the way you tore through the forest to get to us--”

“Stop.” 

Okythoe continued where Calaeno was cut off, “Don’t you feel the revelation? Don’t you yearn for something more, something they will never give you?”

“They won’t accept you.” Aellopus was blunt, her green eyes hard.

“Stop.”

Nikothoe walked closer to her, “If you would just--”

“STOP!”

With a surprised ruffling of wings, the clearing went silent. Matías panted, her heart slammed into her ribcage, tears threatened her eyes. “I know they’ll never love me, you don’t have to tell me that!” She stomped her feet. Her hands flung out. That wild thing in her throat finally clawed its way free and she screamed. The desperation in her legs kicked at the trunks of trees. The frenzy in her hands raked out her throat and she cried.

“Peace,” spoke a voice next to her.”

“Peace,” spoke another.

“Peace be with you,” pleaded them all.

And she was surrounded by four harpies, all trying to comfort her.

“We cannot make them accept you,” mourned Calaeno, “I wish we could. But don’t you see? You can be more. You can be one of us, and your soul can be free, and you can say the name that the wind will carry.”

Matías sniffled. “How?”

She was led to a cliff. She didn’t even know there were cliffs in this sprawling forest. 

“Why are we here?”

“So you can jump.” Nikothoe explained.

“I don’t want to do that.” Matías backed up slowly, tense.

Okythoe stepped in to explain, glaring at Nikothoe. “In order to be reborn, we must first die. And we must die a  _ flower death _ \-- a death that is the culmination of fighting and striving and trying. It must be a death where you die determined to live, to protect. You must die, yes, but you will live again.”

“I-- I don’t know about this.” Matías rocked on her heels, biting her lip. She thought about being a woman. About being free. About flying.

“If you do not want to this, we can take you back to your village,” Calaeno offered. 

She decided.

“I’m jumping!”

She took several steps back, before she started sprinting. The cavern below her was menacing, but she would live. The wind would carry her name and she would die a flower death and she would be free.

Complacency is a disease. It is a poison she has been fed all of her life.

Her back foot scrapes against the end of the cliff as she leaps.

She’s done with slowly being killed.

She’s hung in the air like a star for a few precious, breathtaking moments.

Curiosity is the  _ cure _ .

Gravity yanks her down, and she’s screaming, thrashing, instinctively scared in a way she’s never been before. But she’s more sure of herself.

She will fly.

Her curiosity burns in her, and she doesn’t temper it with something colder, for once. Doesn’t balance her desire with restraint, her need with her duty.

Her vision goes black. 

She opens her eyes. And she laughs.

At the bottom of the cavern she lays, chest heaving, lips spread wide in a grin.

Her feathers are brilliant reds and yellows and oranges, like a living flame. Around her neck are spots of blues where beads once rested. At her left hip, where the black stone was once pocketed, is a smattering of jagged black spots. The stone must have shattered on her impact with the ground. She was as bright and as stunning as any of her mother’s dresses.

She doesn’t have to think about launching herself upwards, giddy laughter bubbling from her lips.

“Isn’t it great?” Aellopus is beside her, and it feels  _ right _ .

“Mama!” She calls out, “Mama, I am Curious!”  
“I don’t think that’s quite the right name for you, honey!” Calaeno laughs above her, and she echoes that sound.

“Mama,” and she says it again. This time, not for protection, but as a goodbye. “Mama, I am Florencia!”

“You needed a flower birth to compliment your flower death, Florencia?” taunted Nikothoe.

“Oh hush, you. Let dearheart have her name. Let the wind carry it to the very stars! Florencia!” Okythoe crows to the heavens, and the harpies are chorusing her name.

She calls out, “I am Florencia!” to remind the world, to carve that name into the fabric of the sky so that, when the people down below look up, they see her as she is.

Laughing and flying and transformed, she is more herself than she has ever been before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a prompt ask for "harpy" and this is what I came up with! I was researching Aztec culture before I wrote this story, so that had an influence on this story. Particularly the "flower death" aspect (sidenote: Aztec poetry is so beautiful!). La Lechuza is taken from Mexican folklore; some think that the legend is inspired by harpy mythology, particularly because the Spaniards brought over a lot Greek culture and legends when they invaded and conquered Mexico. If you notice talk of temperature, about balancing it, that's because a lot of more traditional Mexican healing methods relied on the concept of balance. If you're running hot and feeling unwell, you should eat cold foods, and vice versa.   
> I did a lot of unnecessary research for this story, okay?  
> ALSO! I'm Italian so the moment I found that malocchio existed in other cultures I was like. Slam the Evil Eye button.  
> The names Aellopus, Calaeno, Okytho, and Nikothoe are names of actual mythological harpies! Calaeno translates to something like "dark one" so I HAD to give that name to the dark feathered one.


End file.
